


Mourning Never Comes

by amoralagent



Series: Murderer? I Barely Know Her! [2]
Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: A lot of dog references?, Alana has Anxiety, And Murder-y tension if ya know what mean, Angst, Belligerent Sexual Tension, Brutal Murder, Dark, Dark Hannibal, Dark Will Graham, Domestic, Established Relationship, F/F, Fluff, Hannibal Loves Will, Hannigram - Freeform, He keeps his promises, Heavy Angst, I'm Sorry, Implied/Referenced Abuse, Implied/Referenced Torture, Kinda, M/M, Murder Husbands, Murder Wives, Non-Explicit Sex, Obscure References to art, Possessive Hannibal, Possible Character Death, Post-Episode: s03e13 The Wrath of the Lamb, Psychological Trauma, Referenced Trauma, Revenge, Rough Sex, Sassy Will Graham, Will Graham Doesn't Need Help, Will Loves Hannibal, like wow Will find your chill, murder husbands vs murder wives kind of, of course, that's what mean, this will get messy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-28
Updated: 2018-02-16
Packaged: 2019-02-08 04:43:40
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 5
Words: 8,388
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12856989
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/amoralagent/pseuds/amoralagent
Summary: Neither of them were exactly owned by the other; they were both mad dogs, and would have to be kept muzzled in the same cage- a couple of dangerous animals only somewhat tamed by the other's company. That much was obvious, noting how their reunion turned out.All these years had turned them into the conjoined beast he'd proclaimed them to be.Part two in the series. More surprises for Will, and he likes this one even less. This time, the situation is world's away from torture in their own basement. And the violence that follows, even worse.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> RIGHT, time to find out how Hannibal fucked up. Or did he? Either way, he's tormenting just about everyone. Including Will.
> 
> Anyway, enjoy some beautiful murder wives for now. But it's not all peace and tranquility. Thanks for that, Hannibal.

She didn't like coming back to armed guards at the doors to her family home, even now. As the car pulled up the gravel of the drive crunched and grumbled, just as it did underfoot when she stepped out, wrapping her coat tighter when she approached the two men posted either side of the front doors. Neither of them gave her so much as a smile. Or a nod.

Sometimes she forgot what they were even there for. Most of the time it felt like it was to keep her in, instead of whoever else out.

She had to remind herself that _whoever else_ is supposedly dead. Jack Crawford personally told her as much, uncharacteristically relaxed and seemingly at ease with the whole thing. He'd explained how they had gotten expert opinions regarding the fall from the bluff, and it was either no chance of survival, or severe injuries that, without hospital treatment, would kill them. There had been no trace of either Hannibal or Will ever since.

For Will, Alana had taken a while to grieve. Not because he was a victim: Dolarhyde's body sang a song of two- it was a joint effort, like wolves mauling a carcass, malicious and vehement. It's not as if she could particularly condemn Will, considering how she and Margot had killed together too, but that was different.

Or so she told herself.

After over a year of investigation and following dead-end paths, Jack was calm. He finally accepted the trail of blood leading to a cliff edge and the lack of washed-up, bloated bodies, and Alana trusted that, and it _had_ been a relief.

But Alana never found that calm. The brooding anxiety had clouded her ever since the escape was first announced- it was a crude feeling, as if wherever she'd go, not far off in the distance, her end would be looming and closing in fast. Some days would be worse than others. Like car headlights, either weaving through hills on horizons, or stalking just behind her, alighting her form in a sickly-yellow glow and her shadow running away from her, engine growling low and _keening_. Most of the time, she did her best to ignore it- it certainly didn't show on the outside; as headstrong and self-assured as always.

It naturally became all the more prevalent since they'd left the Verger estate and didn't come back until eighteen months later, a whole seven months _after_ the FBI had closed the investigation into the dead Dragon. And even then, it lingered.

The press were far less ravenous than they had been, but they did little to bring any form of harmony to the situation. Every time she stepped outside it seemed she'd get a greasy voice recorder stuck in her face, or the glint of a camera lens just outside the property. Freddie Lounds had started sniffing around yet again, going so far as to intercept Alana on her way to introduce Morgan to the newly arrived foals one quaint Sunday afternoon. Alana scooping up her toddling son, had snapped something about the idiocy of hounding the wife of a Verger, and the next time she trespassed, she could be facing some very eager Alsatians who would be far more pleased to see her.

Only a few hours afterwards the latest Tattlecrime article read _Barking Dogs Not-So-Seldom Bite: Hannibal Lecter's former lover shows true colours._

It's safe to say Alana wished she had allowed her to be mauled as she'd threatened.

It was partly because of the infringing press that Margot had procured just about every line of defence they could think of, from lumbering bloodhounds to easy-to-reach guns; in the renovations to the house, security cameras were the main priority. In doing so, it helped to absolve Alana's secret Hannibal-Lecter-related paranoia, but also to protect their son, as any mothers do. Margot's practical optimism was admirable, Alana thought- her comfort even better, really.

Rounding the curb of two years past it all, Alana finally began to feel like the winds were changing. _Old habits die hard_ , she thought, as she hung up her shoulder bag that held a loaded gun, and considered it's realistic necessity. She hadn't had a nightmare in over three months: they were all largely the same, involving her son, a knife, and a certain Doctor Lecter that didn't look dead at all. The medication she'd prescribed herself felt weird in her daily routine, and she found that leaving the property would be done without a second thought, in spite of the cameras. In her right mind, she'd admit to moving on-- at least properly beginning to, anyway.

"In your absence, there has been a phone call from one of the investors, and Lady Margot has left for her daily ride, ma'am." One of the nannies informed, a young girl of mid-twenties who always appeared cheery. Alana smiled at her kindly when she appeared upon her arrival, probably hurrying over to try to hang up her coat for her: "The courier delivered today's mail not half an hour ago. Shall I bring it to your office?"

"Oh, _no_ , I'm sure I can manage. Thank you. How's Morgan?"

"He's been a joy. I have just put him down for a nap."

"Thank you, Emilia." Alana offered, touching her upper arm gently as she did. She'd made sure none of the staff curtsied or bowed to her anymore, so she simply nodded and went on her way, leaving Alana to go and collect the mail from her pigeonhole.

Shuffling through the various letters on her way to her office, sighing passably, she took the keys from the pocket of her blazer and unlocked the door without looking up. Only after she dropped the stack of forms and notices on her pile of paperwork she realised something out of place: a thick cream-coloured envelope placed facedown on the desk, wax sealed in black, centred and straightened intentionally as if it had been hand-delivered.

For a long moment, she stood still, and looked at it. Something ugly stirred low in the pit of her stomach. Scowling to herself in confused worry, she turned and left the room to find the nearest member of staff walking past with a handful of washing: "Did someone leave a letter on my desk this morning?"

"I don't believe so, ma'am. No one has been in there all day."

"Okay. Thank you." She dismissed, rather breathless, standing in the doorway, looking at the desk again, then moving back and closing the door behind her. It felt irrational to be so wary of a bit of paper, but there was a familiarity to it; it made her think of the BSHCI and severed lips and the click of an empty gun. She could tell that it was expensive paper, textured and heavy. Maybe it was a wedding invitation from one of Margot's childhood friends. Or a prissy anecdote from one of her more exuberant and high maintenance patients.

Unbeknownst to her, the black wax seal, shining and solid like a dark shell of an insect, was pressed into with the Japanese kanji symbol for death.

Inwardly, she reassured herself as she approached the desk again. Tentative steps. Deep breaths. _It isn't what you think it is._ But when she picked it up and turned it in her hand, _Dear Alana Verger-Bloom_ was written in exquisite calligraphy, and she had to sit down. After collecting herself, she was gentle in tearing the wax seal from the paper with a pop, opening it carefully. The smell of thyme bled into the air. There was only a single line, clear in elegant black and white script, and as she read it she could feel the nape of her neck alight, as if a breath blew cold against it.

> Run, run, as fast as you can.

Instead of throwing it back down on the desk like it had just burnt her, and grabbing the nearest phone to contact the BAU, like any rational person would, she reread the unchanging nursery rhyme line and let it thrum in her chest. And she let herself think. No return address. No stamp. The ink would be imported, the paper mass produced, the scent of herbs universal. No way of tracing it back to wherever it came. The writing was unmistakable, but could it be easily replicated?

Hopefully, it was part of some kind of sick joke purely meant to rile and disturb her. But deep down, she knew what it was, and that she couldn't be complacent about it- as if she ignored it, it would disappear. Even when knowing that, she shoved the letter into an overstuffed drawer and stewed on what to do about it for a fortnight, alone, not yet telling Margot in fear of involving her even more than she already had. It would probably be brushed off as a harmless ploy, aimed directly at Alana's apparent irrationality.

She surprised herself with how easy it was to forget about, not dwelling on it until that strange time of night where you are left with naught but the company of your own fears.

When she did tell Margot, once it had been given time to make its own space in her mind, she wasn't met with immediate disbelief like she thought. She decided to confide it in the middle of the night in the sulphur-coloured glow of the bedside lamp, when Margot was reading in bed, her skin polished golden in the warming light and soft hair falling over her shoulder and black lace nightgown. It was a shame to disturb such a glorious image: "I received a letter. From Hannibal." Alana admitted, with a strange nonchalance.

Margot's brow furrowed slightly when she looked up, but her voice remained sultry and placid, "They're _dead_." She intoned, simultaneously confused and sure in her answer, " _He's_ dead. They fell from a cliff." She lowered her eyes again to the book in her lap as Alana climbed into bed next to her. When she spoke it wasn't mocking or trite, merely impassive, "Something tells me Hannibal Lecter wouldn't be capable of sending you a letter."

"Stranger things have happened." Alana breathed, taking a moment to settle, "The finest trick of the Devil is to make you believe that he does not exist."

Margot nodded imperceptibly, eyes settled on the curve of Alana's hip under the cover, the metal scaffolding deeper within. Sarcasm was a good defence, she found: "I can imagine that it was a pleasant read."

"It was a threat. And a threat to me, is a threat to us." She traced her hand over Margot's bare arm, drawing her gaze, "A threat to our son."

Her book closed, and she heaved exhale, worry swimming like an eel behind her eyes: "What did it say?"

 _"Run, run as fast as you can."_ A smile quirked her lips before she stop it.

Margot was entirely unimpressed, "The Gingerbread Man?" Alana smiled, bitter, but finding it genuinely laughable, "My God. It must be him." The indifferent cadence to her voice made her sound as if she enjoyed the idea, a shared affinity there, of blood and vice.

"The Brothers Grimm adaption of the rhyme tells of a splash of mud that steals a child's face. Morphs into a creature, and runs off into the woods, screaming. Nothing he does that is this carefully planned is as innocent as it seems." Alana adjusted the silken duvet against her bare chest, a fruitless distraction to quell the gravity of the conversation. She felt the need for a glass of wine to busy her hands, and to drown her anxiety: "If it is him, no one will see him coming. Not even the FBI."

"Have you went to them with this?"

"No. And I don't plan to. It's unlikely they'll even entertain the idea of him still being alive. Hannibal the Cannibal is dead, on all accounts."

"Many people want him so. Including you." Alana didn't flinch at the lack of her inclusion- she doubted Margot wanted Hannibal dead, per se, just as much as Will wanted Alana dead to protect Hannibal: not at all. It involved her by proxy and didn't mean she shared the same conclusion, "Have you thought about how that'll be achieved? Without the authorities? You know how that went last time, at Muskrat."

 _"Yes."_ Alana confessed, quiet, "Will you help me?" Margot reached out a hand and tucked a stray hair from Alana's face, and she leaned into the touch. Such divinity and vengeance dormant within her. She thought how beautiful she is, like this.

"Always."


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Will responds.

"I knew I should've banned any writing materials from the house." Will huffed, a tint of dry amusement to his voice, "You just can't help yourself from stirring the fucking pot, can you? Now you've got a fucking vendetta on your hands-- _multiple_ , even."

"Collective pronouns would be more apt."

"Another witty comment, and you'll be the one hanging in the basement like a pig." He took a bigger mouthful of whiskey and revelled in the burn of his throat, trying to calm down with the help of the firelight snapping and flickering. Will let out a long-suffering sigh when Hannibal stood and moved away to fill his glass, no meagreness about him at all. If Will was angry- _really_ angry, and entirely rightfully so- Hannibal would be scuttling from his presence in that moment. Either that, or trying to appease him. Will's fitful anger would be far more easily equated to wrath; normally sated by the kiss of a knife edge to the man's throat, and indiscriminate threats, until Hannibal finally submitted. But, as a shock even to himself, he wasn't angry.

Just disappointed.

"Did you do it to fear-monger? To test her reflexes?"

"It seems that her response was far more cunning that I would've surmised." Hannibal pondered, sitting back down with a catlike grace: "A vigilante creed aimed towards whomever threatens her family. It's rather remarkable." The careful smile that twitched at the corner of his mouth was out of fascinated admiration. It irked Will a little too much.

"It could threaten everything we've made for ourselves. Our deaths. Our new lives. Is that collateral? Is the whole point of this simply because you were bored, at a loss of people to truly manipulate?" Hannibal's head tilted minutely when he bought his glass to his lips, his eyes thoughtful as he blinked, "Tedium makes you resort to abhorrent things."

" _Contemplation_ makes me resort to abhorrent things. Tedium is a result of boredom. I am not bored." He glanced to Will then as if to reassure him, but all he wanted to do was roll his eyes. Hannibal could live without mind games and coercion as easily as he could live without freedom; his own mind is never a dull place to inhabit. With Will, he needn't regress into it, not at length. Knowing of Alana's retaliation made life a tad more thrilling. Like pawns forming a flawed strategy on a chessboard, "Life is made enticing because of it's impermanence. Threats to our existence are everywhere, and often furtive. Is that not exciting?"

"Threats to our existence are present, but what you've just done is sent a very determined one a fucking invitation letter." Will snapped, finishing his drink, "Why-- _bother?"_

"Are you asking if I have a plan?"

"Well, _do you?_ Purely baiting people doesn't satisfy you: you enjoy all parts of the hunt. Even after it's ended. You're going to take this further it's just a matter of time."

Hannibal made a quiet hum of agreement, "I've thought about several outcomes. I have entertained the idea of her death from the moment she pointed a gun in my direction, and she's well aware of that." Will took a piece of leftover ice into his mouth to chew, not looking at him, "To receive a favour is to sell one’s liberty. _I_ preside over _her_ time."

"You're lucky she didn't go to Jack. Not yet, at least. You threatened her as much as you provoked her, Hannibal."

"It seems she's trying to do the same, perhaps accidentally." He absolved, savouring a mouthful of wine and crossing one leg over the other. Will put his glass in his lap and rubbed his face with a sigh, exasperated but unsurprised, trying to gather his thoughts the best he could to stop them from straying. His urge to get another drink grew restless. Hannibal considered him with a wry fondness, like he was simply an onlooker witnessing something careful growing bolder in the company of shadows and quenchless fire, seeing the sparks and clicks of Will's thoughts as he stared into the embers.

"You're making good on your promise to kill her." It wasn't a question, and Will looked a little more apathetic when he said it than Hannibal would've expected. He predicted that the idea would sicken him, even after so long, finding it unjust to exhume such memories and past obligations. _Let sleeping dogs lie._ In absence of Will's reactive anger, bemusement wouldn't be unacceptable- but he was only faced with an expression that he couldn't quite read, artful eyes sharp and occupied in thought. He still wouldn't look at him, but fiddled with the ring on his finger almost absentmindedly. The orange glow moved across the angles of his face, leery, warming, and tasteful: "Where do you suppose I fit into all of this?"

"That's a matter of your choosing, Will."

Will shot him a particularly resentful look, " _Why_ do I find that hard to believe?"

Hannibal levelled his gaze and held it, "You are still an autonomous being. Passivity or activity is undeniably your decision, even when unwittingly involved. You're already a part of this by association." He took a sip of wine and Will broke the eye contact to retrieve another drink, moving away, "Guilty, too." Even though Will didn't physically flinch, his anger bristled, somewhere low in the pit of his stomach. The whole bottle of whiskey was placed by his feet as he sat back down.

For a drawn out time, they intermittently drank in relatively comfortable silence, broken only by the snaps and pops of the flames whittling away. One of the dogs came over and curled up by Will's feet, the rest padding around or sound asleep in their beds warmed by the fire.

In Will's mind he fumbled with the latch on whatever door it was that was separating him from being able to completely refute and dash Hannibal's plans. He _wanted_ to be angry, things would all make sense that way. It was dangerous to forget that trains of thought in Hannibal's mind never derailed, and for something to be left on the back burner for so long it could run the risk of succumbing to impulse, firing back nasty and reckless, nuance be damned. Whether Will liked it or not, Hannibal was sure in the violence of his promise, and wouldn't be convinced otherwise. Not anymore.

The best he could do was delay; he couldn't get Hannibal to relent, to take back his actions. The cards dealt couldn't be changed, but he _could_ change how they were played: "I'll be her buffer." Will declared, mostly without thinking, a hazy irony dwindling on the horizon of his mind like a waving stranger in a memory, "Alana _tried_ to protect me-- from Jack. From you. She was willing to kill, and die, for me. Another lifetime ago." It sounded like he was talking to and convincing himself but Hannibal's keen interest was starkly apparent, his intrigued look unfaltering that Will felt more than saw. He took up his drink again, seemingly brushing off his uncertainty but not his reluctance, almost shrugging, "I can't stop you from doing what you will, but I can temper it. Think of it as--" He gestured to the room as if finding the words in the air, "Damage control."

Hannibal accepted that compromise by his choice to not speak, inwardly rather pleased with where Will's loyalties lie- perhaps where they always have. He looked back to the vanishing fire that was slowly turning the room dark, and waited for a handful of minutes before finishing his wine and rising, his voice emanating from the shadows: "When the time is right, we'll discuss further action. In the meantime, I don't want this to this to get in the way of anything."

Will scoffed, "You don't want me to be angry?"

"Yes." Hannibal offered, oddly sheepish in the incline of his head, "Are you?"

Will could feel his presence just behind his armchair. Absently, he wondered how much more he'd have to drink to be able to quench his nerves, taking a long sip, "No." He admitted, and felt tension lift, "But you haven't slipped the noose, Hannibal. And it's not my hand whose holding it." It seemed more like something Bedelia would say, and Hannibal smiled faintly but remained silent.

Around thirty minutes toppled over each other in quick succession and Will concluded that Hannibal had left the room to go to bed, having had a third- _or fifth?_ \- glass of bourbon. The fire was now only present in the licks of red-orange embers that frayed the edges of the wood, but the night was friendly, ameliorated by the moonlight slanting through the windows.

When Will finally got up and went to the stairs, albeit a little off-balanced, he stopped and turned around, narrowing his eyes to the visible darkness. A few of the dogs stirred in tandem, sniffing the air greedily, their nails scrabbling against the floor as they trotted off to investigate. Sighing and scrubbing a hand down his face, Will followed them unsteadily to the pantry door, his palms landing on the walls when he lost his footing. The door was open and the bravest mutt had barged through it. He reprimanded their curiosity with a sharp hiss, and stood in the dark by the closed door of the cellar for a moment, leant up against the wall, listening.

There was a snap, the whine of one of the dogs, then a shuffling of some kind, and the distinct buzz of a bone saw that made Will want to rub his forehead. He didn't need to go down there to visualise the mess, to know what Hannibal was doing. The metallic stench of blood had drifted up and slithered through the gap under the door. For a brief time Will imagined it creeping towards him, pooling, hot and sticky underfoot, on his hands, smeared across his face, matted into his hair, cloying on his tongue. It made his head spin. And a hint of a smile ghosted his lips.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Will has nightmares as they make arrangements to gallivant off to see Alana once again. Hannibal is still being a bit of a tit, as per usual. 
> 
> Anxiety and Dread, at your service.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Short chapter this time, but the next will be HEAVY. Prepare yourselves for a treat, that is, if you enjoy murder, and hardcore violence. Well, if not, we wouldn't be here now, would we?
> 
> Thank you so much for all the support with this! It is all graciously received, and is the main reason why I'm still going with this. Kudos and comments fuel me.

Without the cumbersome nature of his morals, his fragile sense of propriety having been washed off in the salt water of the Atlantic, his guilt gone with it, Will still had nightmares. A few weeks later he still dreamt, most nights, half-conscious, being utterly paralysed as something imagined moved towards him under the duvet, snakelike and fluid- it was all around him, encroaching. _Would it kill him, or worse? What would be worse?_ He was unable to move away. Voiceless, too. A tall, sallow, antlered creature stood watching in the corner of the room, flickering in and out of existence like a faulty projected image. _A voyeur? Of what?_ He was too warm. Too vulnerable. The weight on his chest felt like it would break his sternum.

It was crawling up his thighs, into his ears, towards his neck, and he was helpless to stop it. _What would be worse?_ Twitching. Fearing the inevitable violating touch of whatever it was, his breath turned ragged and shallow, trying to writhe and fight it but found muscles uselessly unresponsive. The wendigo shifted closer-- _or did it move back?_ It was just looking at him. Stone cold. Stone cold like the face of a child on a cathedral tomb.

He wanted to scream, wanted to be able to squeeze his eyes shut and drop back into the embrace of sleep. But he was _too_ warm. _Too frightened_ , and suddenly he awoke when a strong palm splayed on his chest above his heart.

He gracelessly scrambled up in blind panic, the back of his skull smacking the headboard, _"Will?"_ His woken mind twisted, focused then unfocused, the shadow of the figure with it's empty stare still flitting in the corner of his eye, "Will, you're _awake_. It's okay now." Heaving in air, Will wrestled away from Hannibal's touch, too warm, and moved to get out of bed but his head swam and he sat back down.

"I hate this." His words were barely above a whisper. The orange tint of the lamplight made everything feel heated and sickly.

"Mylimasis," Hannibal consoled, slowly pulling Will back to reality with the gentle touch against his hip that wasn't shied away from: "What did you see? You're burning up." His therapeutic voice sounded like it was being heard underwater, or behind a gag, or from far away.

Will pushed his hands down his face and took shaky but deep inhalations, "I'm _fine_." He breathed, then clambered up to go and wash his face in the ensuite. Hannibal wordlessly got up and began stripping the bed that was now dampened from Will's sweat- despite his likeness for the scent- changing the sheets whilst Will washed, and gathered himself.

"What is it that you hate?" Hannibal offered, and he did sound worried, tucking the last corner of the bedsheets down as Will reentered the room, "What did you see in your nightmares, Will?"

In light of that question Will considered that days go by when he does hate Hannibal. And that would be normal, but sometimes he would get the insipid feeling of wanting to wound him all over again. He stood hugging himself by the end of the bed, suddenly untrusting of his own hands, "The nightmares. I saw something-- _other_. Wearing the shape of a man." He bit out, not entirely truthful but close enough. Not enough for Hannibal though.

"Who did this creature resemble?" Will sat down on the edge of the bed again, looking at the fabric of the curtains and wondering about the inky blackness of the night beyond. Of moonlight and blood. His silence spoke for him, "Would you like to properly discuss the content of these nightmares?" Hannibal was prying, implicating the content to be associated with Alana, and hence what was to come.

But Will didn't know what was to come, not truly. They had packed up everything they needed to travel by the early afternoon, planning to catch a flight late the next evening. If the bags weren't outside of the room, Will's agitation might've peaked. He figured the nightmare was reflective of his trepidation and being _guilty by association_ ; he didn't want to look at it in a convoluted way.

"No."

Hannibal got back into bed, his face not showing if he was tired, instead, his expression was sharp and affectless, "Would you like to talk about them at all?" Reactively, Will would deny it, slip back under the sheets, and curl in on himself. But something tucked away in the back of his mind was telling him that it would help- build upon trust. Trust that didn't need renovating.

"I don't know. _Do you?"_

Hannibal sighed unnoticeably, "I'm right here, Will- as I've always been." Will sighed, "Your nightmares have been worsening. If you like, I can prescribe you something for them." Will laid down, his back to Hannibal, and all but buried himself under the duvet. He didn't want to talk about it. He didn't want to talk about _any of it._ Not until he was drunk, or blissed out, or both. He didn't particularly want to think about Alana's lifeless body either.

"Goodnight, Hannibal." He mumbled in another sigh, a nasty kick of anxious adrenaline burning in his stomach when he remembered the inevitable visit to the Verger estate. Hannibal settled on his side of the bed, and the light turned off.

When Will woke up hours later, he only felt vaguely confused. He couldn't remember the rest of his dreams- the shadow of a tree branch silhouetted against the wall in the intruding daylight reminded him of antlers, and he wanted to fidget, or squirm. Awareness that Hannibal was pressed against him stopped him mid-squirm; his arm was low along his abdomen above his scarred smile, and face inches from his shoulder. His expression was soft with sleep, unguarded, still like the serene surface of a calm sea. Will abstractedly thought he looked younger.

All too soon the day laid itself out in front of him, and his anticipation did too. Reminding himself that this time tomorrow, they'll be back in America. All those security cameras. And guns. And flagrant past memories.

 _Sweet Jesus_. 


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _She was perusing a copy of The Monk, and nearing the end, when there was a heavy and impatient thunder of a knock at the door. Putting her glass down, she got up when none of the maids rushed over to answer it, and the knocking didn't stop until she opened the door._
> 
>  
> 
>  
> 
> Prepare yourselves, this is going to get horrible. I'm sorry, Alana. I really am.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm really sorry for the wait!!!!!! God, I was meant to keep two stories up at once, but this one got a little neglected. It's mainly because I wanted it to be exactly right, and it's been difficult to write this chapter. Hope you enjoy!

Will was pretty sure his adrenal gland was about to bust itself out of his body, considering that he was certain it had not stopped working since they landed. Before that, even. Hannibal could smell it on him, too, absolving it only a little with fleeting touches of his hand settling on the small of Will's back, or laying a hand over his, or the weight of his gaze. As good as it was to have someone to lean on, someone as grounding and present as Hannibal, he found himself struggling.

It was only when the door closed behind him the following night in their mildly appalling motel room, did it start to calm down. He was lucky he hadn't nervously vomited. Not once. What was hard to estimate, was how much of the anxiety was purely nervous excitement- but then he found that just as anxiety inducing, so stopped fixating on it.

In truth, almost all of it was.

"You should get a shower, Will. It could help with the nerves." Hannibal offered, sorting through their suitcases and trying his utmost to not snarl at the pungent smell of damp in the room. Will only scoffed, plopping himself down onto the lumpy double-bed and scrubbing a hand over his face. In the back of his mind, a voice like a child wondered about how easy it would be for someone to recognise them in the streets, and if the FBI would be greeting them in the morning-- or rather, the unfriendly end of their rifles.

Honestly, he wasn't scared of that at all. They'd dealt with a few close shaves with authorities over the years, and knew what to do if things went south. He'd muse that having Hannibal the Cannibal Lecter as his husband, and therefore, his personal attack dog, made very little seem threatening. But, realistically, neither of them were exactly owned by the other; they were both mad dogs, and would have to be kept muzzled in the same cage- a couple of dangerous animals only somewhat tamed by the other's company. That much was obvious, noting how their reunion turned out.

All these years had turned them into the conjoined beast he'd proclaimed them to be.

The authorities couldn't hold them if they tried- not forever. If they were caught, after a large serving of blood and body bags, they wouldn't be separated for long. _Never_ again.

"If you need reassurance, I can offer you that." Hannibal spoke up, snapping him out of his thoughts. Will decidedly watched him instead, his back turned to him as he zipped the bag back up. The fit of his dark t-shirt still made him look as foreboding as he did in multiple layers of cashmere and Italian wool.

It had been odd to see him dressed so much like, well, _a civilian_. It's safe to say when he saw Hannibal in khakis for the first time, Will could've taken him right there and then, in the middle of the dressing room. He didn't admit to it aloud, knowing it was a fucking weird thing to even think, let alone say. No doubt Hannibal already knew, with his sense of smell. The _fucker_.

"I don't think this is a feeling that's going to be washed off. Definitely not _kissed_ away." His tone came out harsher than he'd intended, but Hannibal made no comment.

"I'd tell you there's nothing to be so worried about, but I've exhausted those sentiments." Will lent down to take off his shoes as he heard Hannibal approach the bed from behind: "And something tells me, you're _not worried."_

"Is this you offering me reassurance?"

His pulse was loud in his ears, almost as loud as Hannibal's voice, "Is it working?"

Will closed his eyes briefly and visibly bristled when he felt Hannibal's body heat sidle up behind him, almost nosing at the curls at his nape of his neck, alighting goosebumps. He nearly forgot his task at hand, "You'd be right. Doesn't mean I'm not tense." As if in demonstration, when Hannibal's hand came round to tuck itself under the fabric of Will's shirt, he barely concealed a flinch, dropping his second shoe to the floor. Ignoring pretence, he leaned into Hannibal's touch, his back against his chest to see if he could feel their heartbeats thrumming together. He sighed deeply.

The hands on him, wordlessly drifted to his belt buckle, and Will was hopeless in his only rebuttal, "We don't want a noise complaint." Hannibal hummed something like a purr next to his ear, voice deep and lulling.

"Then you'll have to be  
quiet."

Despite Will's best effort, the help of his face being pushed into the sheets, and even a pillow case being tightened over his head on his instruction, he wasn't quiet. Nevertheless, no noise complaint was issued, only the tired, enduring glances from the scrawny woman at the reception desk. Plus, they _weren't_ greeted by the promise of bullets the following morning. _Thank fuck_.

The nights activities had actually improved the quality of his sleep. He'd found that the ugly feeling in his stomach had stopped as well, but there was no doubt that it would be resurfacing, slowly worming it's way back into his system the nearer they drove to the estate.

By the time he began to recognise the area and saw the outline of the building against the sky, it was dark again.

A thought kept passing through his mind that it could end how Muskrat Farm was supposed to- just without the whole Peking-ducked cannibal and torn off face. He could _escape_ Hannibal Lecter, and run into the protection of the Verger-Blooms, exonerate himself of any blame. To follow in Bedelia's footsteps and be a victim of Stockholm syndrome, and psychological coercion by way of narcotics, and a terrible kidnapping. He considered that thought for most of the drive.

He considered that it would make a masterful plan.

 

Alana had just relieved herself of the confusing headspace that accompanied all the paperwork, and filing, and business calls she had to orchestrate. It had left her more tired than she thought. After a small dinner- made up of naught but her own company since Margot was off on a visit to a potentially investable property a few states out- she relaxed by the fire with a glass (well, _whole bottle_ ) of Chianti.

 _God, she missed Margot_. She had to convince herself she was just gone on a long horse ride to prevent herself from pining. North Carolina felt like too far away. For some inexplicable reason, in spite of all the security and staff to keep her from feeling too alone, she felt far more vulnerable without the woman she loved there with her- like some part of her was missing.

Of course, it wasn't something she obsessed over, because Alana didn't use her wife as an emotional crutch, and didn't have to. Sometimes, she wondered if Margot's strength and grace did a disservice to her own; holding her in such high regard could lead to Alana forgetting herself. She didn't _need_ anyone, but _wanted_ her. Besides, she was busy and overrun with work anyway- she didn't necessarily need any help. It was during the periods of calm, that she found it all too quiet.

Even so, without Margot's soft attention or silken voice to lull her to sleep, it was cold in bed alone. Still cold, in the warming light of the fire.

She was perusing a copy of _The Monk_ , and nearing the end, when there was a heavy and impatient thunder of a knock at the door. Putting her glass down, she got up when none of the maids rushed over to answer it, and the knocking didn't stop until she opened the door.

Who she saw when she opened it, made her think she'd stepped into a dream: _"Will?"_ She asked, incredulous, not given time to fully prepare herself as he fell through the door, stumbling and panting. It was hard to recognise him, past all the blood, "Will? How are you- _here?_ You're-- _dead!_ You're supposed to be--" He almost collapsed and she came to his side, wide-eyed in disbelief that she was seeing him, able to touch him; it wasn't like seeing a ghost- it was all too real. Will's hand smeared a streak of thick blood across the white of the wall, not yet cooled, and spluttered a cough: "What happened?"

Will strained a groan of pain past the blood between his teeth, and grabbed at his stomach. A rough exhale knotted into a breathless laugh: "I-- _fuck_... Hi Alana-" Okay, it definitely was Will Graham. He didn't look dead at all, or, not quite yet. The shock was similar to how she felt seeing Hannibal covered in blood, when-- _Hannibal._

_"Where's Hannibal?"_

"He's out there." Will breathed, expression hunted and sharp, vision marred by the blood from a wound to his head: "We-- had an argument, a fight, and I-" He huffed, regaining his balance a little, breathing slowly regulating.

" _Did he do this to you?_  Will? Is he-- What were you arguing about?"

Will breathed hard, meeting her eyes for the first time in years. He felt nothing: "How we were going to kill you."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Watch out for big bad violence next time.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _A shadow moved, warped like a ghost at the edge of her vision, then a strong arm hooked itself around her neck._
> 
>  
> 
> ALANA, I AM SO SORRY! (Honestly, not sorry enough though).

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is a long time coming, I know, but I promise that it's worth it. Prepare yourself for a bumpy ride, as always. This is where those warnings come in.

A shadow moved, warped like a ghost at the edge of her vision, then a strong arm hooked itself around her neck. Alana kicked back, nails coming up to scratch uselessly at any exposed skin, centimetres away from catching eyes. The grip tightened. Her feet left the ground. Gasping, choking, she looked to Will with pleading eyes. Tears quickly fogged her gaze, the blood on Will's clothes drifting and swaying as her mind swam, slowly shutting off. Her throat felt as if it would give way at any moment. And Will stood there. Still.

Then, she saw nothing.

Hannibal held her up, lifting her slightly and carrying her to drape her limp form in a nearby armchair. He looked to Will with dark eyes, watching him stare at the space in front of him, replaying what he'd just witnessed. But he wasn't scared, far away from upset. He seemed... _resolute_.

As if it was natural, he looked more himself blood-soaked; he reeked of it, and it wasn't his own. Hannibal found it glorious. Arresting.

"Are you with me?" Hannibal uttered, approaching Will easily and admiring him. Will blinked away all the imaginings of when he'd seen that happen before, behind the pendulum. In a basement. When he met Hannibal's eyes, he didn't feel remorse.

"Yes."

"Are you hurt?"

Will sighed, "Not majorly. One of the guards punched me, but other than that." He couldn't feel it. The blood in his mouth wasn't his.

It was more than lucky that the vicious dogs that caught wind of his scent were easily plied with raw meat- their hunger undermining their loyalty. The security wasn't as tight as it probably was regularly, which seemed counterproductive, given that Margot's absence had left a chip in the armour that should've been fixed. Will still couldn't piece together how Hannibal knew she wouldn't be there- he had his ways. He couldn't exactly place why it mattered that she'd be gone. It'd become clear, he supposed. Hannibal's hand cradled his face, reddening his palm, and Will allowed it. He took the plastic gloves that were handed to him, watched Hannibal open the bag he'd bought with him. The contents glittered sharp silvers.

They didn't kill the child, Morgan.

Or at least, _Will didn't_.

He didn't ask. If Hannibal had gone against his request, and sought him out anyway, Will didn't ask. He didn't want to know. They'd argued about it: Hannibal had noted with no uncertain terms that Alana's life she had built for herself only existed by his jurisdiction. Out of _the kindness of his heart._ Will had swore at him and said that aren't going to fucking kill a child; that his feud was with Alana; that it shouldn't have to extend to Margot, to their shared family.

It wasn't clear whether that had gotten through to him or not. Will never asked.

Still, Hannibal smelt of metal and viscera when he touched a hand to Will's face. That didn't answer his question- there were plenty of staff, maids, who that smell could now embody. He didn't want to think about the colour red marring a child's bedroom. He'd seen that before and it didn't make it any less atrocious.

Despite all the planning (and panicking, on Will's part) the details of what was to happen to Alana weren't spoken about.

Just like with the hostages, with Eamonn, he tried to convince himself that it had a moral justification. Clinging onto that vapid yet flexible veneer of being on some kind of moral high-ground, as if he still had a yearning for justice. As if he ever did. Within the act, he shed that pretence, and became the dark, insidious creature that Hannibal had nurtured in his mind. Eventually, he'd mentally give up the morality altogether; physically, he already had.

Will liked to think he'd chosen not to know out of dislike over the thought of Alana's death, but- even though he wouldn't admit it- it was most likely because he wanted to be surprised.

The brutal killings of the guards was originally unplanned. It was only once they'd arrived did he tell Hannibal what he was going to do, taking the meat they'd packed in case of dogs, and a sheepsfoot lockback knife from the compartment. Hannibal had went around the back entrance, skulking down one of the various long hallways; voices echoing quietly, lights casting long shadows up the walls.

When Alana opened the door to Will, he'd worked himself up to appear terrified. She didn't know of the torn throats of the guards outside, the cooling red heaps of their corpses strewn across concrete, or lying damp, face down in the grass, still bleeding. He'd been shot at when he was first spotted: it was lucky the fire was snapping away in the hearth. Luckier still that they'd missed him, lost sight of him until it was too late.

Just the same, she didn't know until it was too late.

Will looked down at her still unconscious form, and Hannibal mirrored him. It reminded him of watching Mason eat his own face; of the symbiotic power they held. He felt Hannibal's gaze burning at the side of his face, not meeting it, even when he spoke: "Shall we?"

Crows picked at bones the following morning; pink sinews pulled off, held in the varnished black of their beaks. The stone-cold carcasses of the security weren't bleeding anymore. Black-winged birds scattered at the noise of a car pulling into the large driveway, watching from a distance as a tuft of ginger hair emerged from it, clicking.

Police scanners told of a call from the old Verger Estate, a possible homicide. Naturally, that piqued the interest of one Freddie Lounds, for once thankful to be in the area, more than ready to scoop up something big. In what could be described as a lucky break, she'd managed to race there, and arrived before the cops. Camera in-hand. The front door was left ajar.

What the scanners had failed to mention, is the body of Alana Verger-Bloom was discovered at around 7am, by a young boy of around eight years of age. Her own son.

Too late, the child already screaming and traumatised beyond reconcile, a nanny had rushed to him from where she was tidying his room, missing the body of her fellow handmaiden just a few feet away. She had been the one to alert authorities, attempting to calm the young boy, escaping the house.

Following and photographing the various traces of blood, Freddie warily turned the corner into the lounge area. The same one in which Alana had first met Mason. The sight before her made nausea kick low in her stomach, dizzying.

She looked-- _serene_. Draped across one of the gold-trimmed couches, clothed in cream silk, posed like Peyron's Alcestis. Her hair spilled like ink across the pillows. The only thing that marred the otherwise decadent image was the blood, her throat cut to bring about a quick death, any colour drained from her face. A wound on her chest hidden under soiled linen, an empty space where her heart has been. Her eyes no longer alert and bright and piercing.

Shakily, the camera shutter kept clicking. The distant sound of incoming sirens, careful footsteps, and a car door slamming, left the scene undisturbed. The crows descended once again.

  
"What are you doing?" Will asked, pulling on a shirt and wandering over to collect some juice from the fridge. He was surprised when Hannibal didn't even look up from the tablet when he came into the room.

"Perusing Miss. Lounds' most recent escapades. She is very adamant that this is the work of the _Lecter-Grahams,_ as she calls us. _A cannibal couple_." He looked to him then, feigning shock with a raised brow but expression otherwise inscrutable, "She seems to believe that you and I are _in cahoots._ Are we in cahoots, Will?" Will just grunted a laugh, noting the distaste in Hannibal's voice as he quoted her.

"I don't know, _are we?"_ He quipped, leaning over to kiss him sweetly and snatching up the tablet, before walking past to let the dogs out.

It'd been a week since they'd been able to settle, a few since the incident itself, and it seemed that Hannibal had become more interested in that thing than he was in Will. Granted, the media had taken the possibility of Hannibal Lecter's resurrection and run with it; Hannibal's ego was undoubtedly bolstered. Will had seen quite a bit of it, from tabs being left open. On purpose.

News outlets were a veritable shitstorm of rumours and statements and theories- all were thrown but none of which could really stick, given a complete lack of evidence regarding the perpetrators. Hannibal had seen to that, as always. The organs removed post-mortem wasn't in line with the Chesapeake Ripper- her not being alive or aware before her heart was ripped from her was Will's doing. He didn't want her to suffer that.

Predictably, it had caused a fucking haemorrhage for the FBI: without an imagination to borrow, it seemed they were running around in circles. At first, Will tried to pay no mind to it, but found himself curious, spurred on by Hannibal. Now and again, he'd see the fresh photos Freddie had taken, and it would rub salt in a wound he didn't know he had. Any hard feelings that came afterwards were strangely forgotten after they'd eaten her heart- a meal that seemed appropriate for a Roman Emperors banquet table. A suitable tribute, to honour someone they both appreciated, at some point.

He didn't feel guilty anymore.

Out of all the insane, deluded, and actually pretty offensive, wonderings about the case, there was one idea that made Will chuckle: that it was a vicious attack from some vindictive anti-activist group; those who tried to boycott the Verger meat-packing industry turning into the vegetarian one it did after the death of Mason. A rather ambiguous strike against the privileged. _Is that what the FBI is coming up with now? Eat the Righteous?_ Well, anything that didn't implicate them was a blessing in disguise. Despite the lunacy.

Nevertheless, their names had reemerged on the glorified popularity contest that is the FBIs most wanted. It seemed like just a precaution, but hey, fearmongering is the hip new trend.

It wasn't as if anyone was going to find them- they'd relocated again, much to Will's annoyance. Realistically, it was for the best. Chiyoh had magically appeared out of nowhere, much like she usually did, having arranged transport and secured a new, far more elaborate place in comparison, all the way in Kauai. Reluctantly, she'd made it so the dogs could come too, without being asked to do so. Despite her thoughtfulness, Will still scowled, asking: "Where were you when I was getting shot at?"

"I figured you had it under control." She countered, with a small smile that could've easily been mistaken as nonchalant. The glint in her eyes said otherwise.

The house was more-- _ostentatious_ than Will assumed it would be. Glass instead of walls, steep pitched roofs, furniture unassuming but overly luxurious- it even had a pool out the back. He'd tried not to complain too much: the sea-view was breathtaking, the climate surprisingly bearable, the locals were more than hospitable. Will had even managed to involve himself in a small group of fisherman that he planned to go out to sea with later in the month; interested in catching far more exotic fish that what he was used to.

Hannibal was as relaxed as ever, enjoying regarding the terror he'd created grow rampant, all from the safety of his own little slice of paradise. Nestled away safely with-- _well_ , the love of his life. Watching Will run around in the sun with his pack, his laugh genuine, was what made it all worth it. He hardly cared how temporary it might be. Neither of them could, or they would only survive, not live. And, for now, they were living.

In spite of, the authorities, of fate. Of God. In spite of everything.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I guess the silver lining is that Margot and Morgan are still okay, keeping the Verger name alive. They'll be okay. Again, sorry Alana. Also, if you weren't aware, 1) Hannibal was about 7/8 ish when his parents were killed, and he found their bodies in the snow, so that's why he did that to Morgan, and 2) Alcestis is a character who sacrifices herself so her family can come back from the dead. Fun.
> 
> If you really hate and argue against the idea of Hannibal killing Alana, just know that Bryan Fuller has said when Hannibal escapes he will kill Alana, and she knows this. Don't fight me.
> 
> In other news, I'm actually working on a serial killer AU as my next work, so that should be fun. If you feel like you can't get enough of my writing (ha, okay) please go and read my thieves AU, it's one of my favourite things to write right now. 
> 
> You're all great. Thank you again. (And sorry, have I said that enough?)
> 
> Come say hi on [tumblr](http://acannibalseyrie.tumblr.com)!


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